


Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones, but Words Might Get Me Laid

by Mrs King of Hell (Slytherkins)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel/Hunter Relationship, Castiel doesn't need mojo to make Dean Winchester his bitch, Castiel is adorable when he makes air quotes, Castiel is done with Dean's shit, DON'T BE ASHAMED OF YOUR FEELZ DEAN, Dean Winchester is a Brat, Dean Winchester is emotionally constipated, Dean has a hankering for sausage, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Dom Castiel, Dom Castiel/Sub Dean Winchester, Flangst?, Internalized Homophobia, Interspecies, Is it canon divergent? THERE'RE SO MANY SEASONS I CAN'T FIT IT ALL IN MY BRAINCASE, M/M, Season/Series 06, Sub Dean Winchester, Ten bucks Sammy already knows, The trench coat is important, This was not meant to have this many feels, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Why couldn't they just fuck?, doesn't matter - the sex is hawt, inappropriate metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 19:19:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16102112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slytherkins/pseuds/Mrs%20King%20of%20Hell
Summary: When Dean's name calling goes too far, Castiel decides to teach him a lesson in manners.





	Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones, but Words Might Get Me Laid

They were all still angry.

Well, Dean was embarrassed, but it was essentially the same thing. He was not one to admit fault, even to himself, and the gnawing sense that he should--that he should _apologize--_ pissed him off. It made him pissed off at the person he owed the apology to, too, but he was sure he could find something to offer him in lieu of the dreaded s-word. With luck, they could take things out on each other and call it even.  

The day had been generally draining, what with being turned into a Jefferson Starship and then healed, and then thinking he had unleashed a global pandemic and then finding he hadn't, and the twenty hour drive from Grants Pass to Sioux Falls seemed far less appealing than a motel room and a cooler full of beer. This was why Dean was currently unpacking his duffle bag in anticipation of a shower hot enough to burn away sin itself; or at the very least, a little shame.

“Well. Didn’t take you long to wrap things up,” he remarked without turning around. His visitor hadn’t announced himself yet, but Dean had been expecting him since Sam had walked out the door to find dinner and a store still selling alcohol. Late as it was, that promised to take some doing. They had time, if not a lot of it.

“You’d be amazed what an angel is capable of when properly motivated.”

The gruff voice was much closer than predicted, and it set Dean’s heart tripping. He tossed his duffle bag on the bed and wiped the thirsty look from his features before turning to face Cas. The angel’s expression was hard, and Dean's answered it with an almost bored defiance. He hadn’t endangered humanity just to piss Cas off, but as silver linings went, it wasn’t half bad.

“What? Aren’t you needed upstairs, Mister ‘I’m in the Middle of a Civil War’?” Dean asked, affecting Cas’ serious tone.

Cas didn’t rise to the bait. Not really. He did lean forward, his voice frighteningly low, to ask, “What was it you called me earlier?”

Dean's nervous gulp was more conspicuous than he might have liked. He had known, when Cas had started pouting in the diner, that he’d be answering for that sooner or later. He was glad it turned out to be sooner. Dean cleared his throat.

“A baby,” he reminded the angel matter-of-factly, “in a trench coat.”

“Uh-huh.” Cas’ already pursed lips tightened. Dean knew it was part of the act. Cas wasn’t really as angry as he looked. At least, Dean hoped he wasn’t, because he looked _really_ angry.

“And...do you _still_ think I’m a baby?”

Dean considered for a moment and nodded. “In a trench coat,” he added.

“In a trench coat,” Cas repeated, nodding as well.

“Hey, if the shoe fits.”

Cas’ scowl faltered. “Why are we talking about shoes now?” he asked hesitantly, breaking character to whisper, and Dean breathed an internal sigh of relief. Not as mad as he looked, after all. A genuinely angry Cas was not as much fun. Or rather, he was fun of a different sort, but a brawl was not what Dean craved.

“The trench coat seemed very important a moment ago,” said Cas, cocking his head in confusion. Dean smirked and cranked up the smartass a notch or two.

“Point is, without your mojo?” he said with a shrug. “You’re like an infant.”

“ _I’m_ like an infant?”

“Yup."

“Well, I don’t need 'mojo' to make you my bitch,” Cas pointed out, his affront nudging him back on script. Dean said a silent prayer of thanks that he’d taught Cas that line.

“Oh, you think you can?” Dean said cockily.

“I know I can.”

“I’d like to see you tr-”

Before the sentence could clear his lips, Dean found himself pressed face-first against the far wall. The swiftness and force involved were not the only things that stole his breath. Dean grinned to himself, his cheek pressed to the cheap wooden motel paneling, knowing Cas couldn’t see him. They’d come a long way since that reluctant discussion a few months prior when, missing Lisa and still distrustful of his brother, Dean had been desperate enough to finally allow himself to succumb to the silent something that had always been between the two of them.

He'd called Cas to discuss his suspicions regarding Sam and the Campbells, but his situation seemed even more disheartening when described out loud, and as he'd talked, Dean had realized that Cas was the only sure thing he had left outside of Bobby. He'd found himself feeling suddenly lonesome, and he noticed he was fixating on the angel's lips, wishing he could kiss them. The thought had surprised him at first, though it really shouldn't have, and it only took a moment for Dean to make peace with the longing.

And then a moment more for him to pray for the thing to actually happen.

 _Finally_ , was all Cas had said before answering that prayer in spectacular, thorough, and exceedingly satisfying fashion.

“So, you mean role play,” Cas had attempted to clarify afterward, “as a means of foreplay.” Dean had still been feeling relaxed enough, covered more by angel than by their tangled sheets, to broach the subject. But he should have known, no matter how elementary the concept seemed to him, that the conversation wouldn’t be simple or straightforward.

“Do you have to label it, Cas?” Dean had whined with a roll of his eyes. “Yes, I suppose, if it will help you to understand. Foreplay.”

“So you enjoy being dominated.”

Dean winced. “Don’t put it like that,” he'd objected. He’d acquired a few new tastes while in Hell, none of which he was particularly proud. This one was the most acceptable by far, though it was the last he’d admit to anyone else, or in any other situation, and it was the one he had the least opportunity to indulge in.

“Look. I’m not quite... _comfortable_ yet with the fact that I apparently crave sausage,” he’d explained as delicately as he could.

“That seems unlikely,” Castiel had argued with a skeptical bunch to his brow. “You appear to be very comfortable to me. I watched you eat three hot dogs in a row just hours ago. Besides, what do sausages have to do with-”

Dean’s bemused expression had caused the angel to pause long enough to realize the error in his analysis.

“Oh,” he’d exclaimed softly, “It’s a euphemism.” He seemed pleased with himself to have worked it out, though his confidence was evanescent. “It _is_ a euphemism, isn’t it?”

Dean had nodded slowly but emphatically. “So, it would help me to feel more secure in my manhood if I didn’t just, y'know, grab ankle every time you gave me that look.”

“Which look is that?”

“Just pretend that I don’t have a choice, okay?” Dean had huffed, exasperated by the angel’s inexperience. Geez. You’d think a guy who had watched humanity since it pulled itself out of the trees would have paid more attention to the one thing it seemed to enjoy most. “I don’t want to just _give_ it to you. I want you to have to take it out of me.”

Castiel had seemed confused still but willing to play along. “And that will make you feel better about the fact that I penetrate you during intercourse?”

“Yes, Cas,” Dean had said through clenched teeth, struggling to remain civil and almost succeeding. “Yes, you ‘role playing’ will make me feel better about me taking it up the ass from a little nerdy dude with wings. Can we please stop _discussing_ it?”

Painful as the conversation had been, Dean considered it to have been well worth it to find himself currently pressed against the grimy paneled wall of a nameless motel room by the entire length of Cas’ strong, belligerent, trench coated vessel.

“I find it hard to believe that _I_ am the baby in this scenario," Cas griped in Dean's ear, "when I’m the one always cleaning up _your_ messes. In fact, I think you need a diaper cha-”

“Whoa, whoa,” Dean interrupted, scowling at the tainted mood even as Cas reached to undo his belt. “Can we cool it with the baby metaphors while you’re touching my junk, Cas? Little weird.”

Instead of more timid stumbling, Castiel turned Dean roughly to scowl in his face. Both his aggression and the tone of the angel’s voice when he next spoke turned Dean’s knees to putty, and he might not have managed to remain upright if not for Cas’ fist bunched in the collar of his flannel overshirt.

“Listen,” Cas hissed, apparently officially done with Dean’s shit. “I am not familiar with all the rules of this little ‘game’ you want me to play. So why don't I simply take off your pants, and you be a good boy and stop _talking_ and _eat my sausage_.”

Dean nodded wordlessly (though he might have whimpered) before he was tossed unceremoniously onto the nearest bed, the impact causing his duffle bag to bounce to the floor where it was promptly ignored.

“That’s better,” Cas growled as he tugged Dean’s belt free of his jeans. He tossed it in the general direction of the man's neglected luggage before attacking his pants, stipping them, boxers and all, to reveal Dean’s very eager and obviously quite confident manhood. The angel considered it hungrily as he dropped his trenchcoat across a nearby chair where it was soon joined by the rest of his bedraggled suit. His eyes were still glued to it when he slipped onto the bed between Dean’s thighs to admire it up close.

“You know, human genitalia really is quite unlovely.” The statement was at odds with the fond look on Cas’ face as he gazed at the thing. “But it makes me feel somewhat privileged to think--no matter how many women this has been inside--no man, outside of Hell itself, has ever touched it,” he remarked, his eyes cutting to Dean’s which were imploring. “Except for me,” he finished, making sure the tip of the organ in question brushed every inch of him, clavicle to cock, as he climbed his way up the length of Dean’s body.

Cas’ hand slid up Dean’s shirt as he rose, his touch firm and possessive, and Dean could barely breathe. The hunter decided respiration was overrated anyway, really, as he poured what was left of the air in his lungs into Cas’ mouth when their lips met and locked. Their kiss was rowdy, bordering on violent, and it stated unambiguously that Castiel would not be denied his pound of flesh. Which was exactly how Dean liked it. He was so thoroughly drunken on the angel's tongue that he could hardly follow the flurry of activity that found him suddenly bound and at Cas' mercy.

Cas had drawn back, pulling the hunter with him to yank the front of his shirt up and over his head. Instead of removing it entirely, Castiel left it looped around Dean’s upper arms so that, once he flipped him over and pressed him face down on the mattress, a twist of the fabric restrained him entirely. It had been so abrupt, it took Dean a few seconds to process everything. Particularly, how delicious his restraints felt cutting into his biceps. And how throbbingly goddamned hard the whole thing had made him.

“Spit,” Cas demanded, his hand held ready by Dean’s mouth to collect it. What he was offered was apparently insufficient, as the angel’s fingers delved past Dean’s lips to find more, gagging him a little. The man helpfully wrapped his tongue around the invading digits, and Cas grunted approvingly. Wet to the last knuckle, those fingers then went immediately to the crack of the elder Winchester’s ass.

It was not enough. Dean might have invested in lube if he wasn’t terrified of Sammy finding it on accident while digging through his bag for deodorant or something equally mundane. It didn’t matter. Dean liked this part of it, too. He’d made friends with pain long before selling his soul. That relationship simply became more intimate after his trip downstairs.

Castiel didn’t waste any time. They didn’t have any to waste. Sam could be on his way back already. Dean buried his face in the musty, threadbare velvetine coverlet to muffle his groan as two of the angel’s already drying fingers forced him open. He struggled reflexively, but Cas knew by now not to stop because of it. His hand followed Dean’s squirmings until his fingers were buried completely. Only then did he pause to lower his face to where Dean’s panted, beaded with sweat, and reach to tenderly kiss away a tear that threatened to escape from the corner of the man’s eye.

“Do you still want me to get out of your ass?” he whispered directly in Dean's ear, shoving his fingers even deeper.

“Oh, god,” Dean moaned. It was pitiful and helpless, and it brought a smile to the angel’s lips.

“He’s not the one answering your prayers anymore, Dean Winchester,” he said, removing his hand and quickly slipping on top of the whimpering man to position his cock there instead. “ _I am_.”

His plunge wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle, and he sank balls deep with a moan in answer to the one shouted into the mattress by the man he was embedding himself in. Dean felt Castiel’s chest press itself to the backs of his arms which were pinned uncomfortably between them as the angel burrowed his own beneath Dean to cling to him as he rode the man. Then his mouth fell to the back of Dean’s neck, and the hunter sobbed out his gratitude. It was almost too perfect.

Cas was a fast learner, and his skill was almost miraculous considering how recently he'd taken up this sport. But the act was still new enough to him for him to get lost in it, and Dean loved that. The angel wasn’t aiming to impress. He didn’t overthink things. He allowed himself to be overwhelmed by the experience, and the sound of his very vocal enjoyment never failed to push Dean to heights of arousal he’d never experienced with any lover before this one. Dean struggled to turn his bound hand to grasp at Cas to encourage him deeper, harder. Fuck. Faster. Not that he needed any encouragement. Both the hunter and the bed frame groaned as the angel pounded Dean with increasing enthusiasm.

“Ah, _fuck_ , Cas.”

“Say all of it,” the angel begged between ragged breaths. “Dean. Say my name.” 

Dean obliged.

“ _Castiel!_ ”

It was as surely a prayer as any other he’d ever uttered. At that moment, Dean absolutely fucking worshiped the divine staff that impaled him, pumping him full of thick, warm benediction. He felt himself spill his own load in response, soiling the gold bedspread beneath him which had no doubt seen countless similar stains before this one.

Dean felt Cas withdraw moments before he felt him collapse with a bounce onto the mattress beside him, and he turned his head to look at the angel. Castiel’s post-coital expression always reminded Dean of the beatitude seen on the faces of the saints plastered to the sides of cheap candles at the grocery store. It was endearing, and Dean supposed it stood to reason. A really mind-blowing orgasm was probably the closest any of them would ever get to feeling the presence of God.

“Uh...Cas?” Dean grunted after they’d both had a chance to catch their breath. He wriggled his bound arms demonstratively, and the angel quickly finished stripping the t-shirt from them. Once free, though they were reluctant to obey, Dean reached to draw Cas closer to him. They didn’t have long, but surely there was enough time for this, even if only a moment.

Dean didn’t stretch to kiss him, though. The hunter knew Cas wished he would be more demonstrative in his affection, but Dean wasn’t yet ready to turn their relationship so maudlin, especially with the angel fighting a war against the current strongest known being in the universe. Dean didn’t want to let himself need Castiel just when he was likely to lose him soon.

“Did I hurt you?” Cas asked, his brow creased with worry. He asked it every time, and the answer was always the same.

“Just right,” Dean told him with a nod and a groggy smile. He wanted to, but he couldn’t fall asleep. He had to get into the shower before Sammy got back. He had to make sure Cas ‘angelled’ away the evidence of what they’d just done, including the stain on the bedspread and the smell of rut and sweat that hung heavy in the room. As if reading his thoughts, Cas untangled himself and sat up.

“I should go,” he said, though his tone was apologetic. “We’ve received word that Raphael is planning a major offensive soon, and I need to meet with my generals to discuss strategy. Today has delayed some very important plans. Though, I believe it to have been worth it. It is good to know that Eve has been taken care of once and for all.”

He crawled back into his clothes as he spoke, though Dean knew he could have dressed himself with a snap of his fingers. Cas was reluctant to go. Dean was reluctant to let him. The Winchester was no stranger to cosmic-scale machinations. He’d been caught in the middle of them literally his whole life. But something about the talk of war--proper, celestial war with literal armies of angels--made him feel even smaller than usual. Or perhaps it was simply knowing that Cas was on the front lines of this one, where Dean couldn't follow, where he would be worse than useless. The angel had saved his life countless times, and Dean wouldn’t be able to return the favor when the time came.

Once dressed, Cas did the obligatory house cleaning and turned to go, but Dean halted him.

“Hey,” he called, forcing his limbs into compliance to roll off the bed and go to him. Dean wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. He only knew that he didn't want Cas to disappear, but also that he would and that he must. He gripped the angel by the back of the neck and tugged him close to press their foreheads together. Cas mirrored Dean’s grasp with a grateful sigh, pressing his forehead more firmly for a moment before starting to pull away. Dean refused to release him.

“Castiel?”

The angel gave him a quizzical look, patient though clearly confused, and Dean heaved a deep breath and decided to sack up already. He realized suddenly that it didn't matter whether he wanted to admit to what he felt, he felt it anyway. Losing his guardian angel would hurt just as badly if he never expressed it as it would if he had. More, probably, because then he'd have to carry the weight of regret over things not said, over kisses not shared. Dean had learned that lesson the hard way.

He watched Cas’ expression shift from confusion to astonishment as Dean leaned in to press their lips together. It wasn't lewd or overtly sexual. It was tender. Affectionate. It took longer than Dean might have expected for Cas' shock to bleed away sufficiently to allow him to return it but, though it lingered, the kiss ended well before Dean was ready. Castiel had to go. Half of Heaven was waiting for him.

Not that Dean particularly cared about those feathered assholes.

“You give ‘em Hell, you hear?” he said finally, embarrassed by the threatening tears that choked his voice to a pitiful croak. Castiel was no less emotional when he stepped back. Unable to answer aloud, he merely nodded at Dean with a gentle smile that conveyed more than words ever could before vanishing, leaving both the hunter's arms and his heart suddenly, achingly empty.


End file.
